A Rant on Time

The face stationary and the hands ever moving, the clock ticks away, reminding everyone that at least till we beat light in a race, and even then only conceptually perhaps, time is not exactly waiting around for anyone. Things rise, the hands turn, and they fall. Many an Atlantis arise, the face stays the same, and they turn to dust. Steel and bone, it all eventually starts to rust. All the same, I suppose it will be interesting to ask the cockroaches for their perspective.

There are medicinal properties too, that the watch hides in its springs and cogs. Or so it is said. Something about how the water from those springs tends to heal all wounds, even those that doctors had steered a mile away from. About how the cog teeth close gashes that friends had seen, tried to help you with and then eventually left you for dead. But what about an adherent of Bwiti who decimates the notion of a failing memory with the bark of iboga?

The length of the chain at the end of the fob is likened to the amount of time we have as conscious beings on this planet called home. Life itself consumes that chain for sustenance, and when the links are all devoured, the jig is up. The biggest problem with these links though, in my view, is that they are not inter-changeable. I could never give you a link from my chain, obviously, and that is alright. But I couldn't even interchange two links in my own chain. Linear flow and all that. Raises then the question of how long originally was the chain of those that committed suicide?

The precision of the chronometer is only as precise as the person designing it. You put your faith in the machine, you automatically put your faith in the man. Something I instinctively shy away from, faith in its many forms. But precision derived from the body clock is as good or as bad as that of a chronometer, or at least as useful at any rate. No chronometer could tell you the precise moment to pull out and spill your seed on the ground, could it now? I still choose to wear a time piece.